Crows

Gestalt

The pieces fit when people cease to lie.

They make a picture, comprehensible.

When they lie, the picture's surrealistic -

A spider in another spider's web.

3-1-14

 

Keats & Millay

Sweet skeleton of flesh and human being,

Good humans, like an infant in his crib

Ere the evil confiscates his soul.

Ribbed feelings take the structure of a man -

In love, in vivo and at large. Alive!

Keats is dead. And was when he was born.

I never castigate a former love,

And Keats though dead still lives inside my soul.

Alive? An effigy in cardboard of the world.

I worshiped him too long not to rebel,

As a mummy bursts his linen rags.

I'll probably be dead for many years

Ere Millay has gone the way of Keats.

3-1-14

 

Crows

My poems can be beautiful.

I frequently forget

The circumstance, their father,

In which they were conceived.

Like swans aloft the night,

A Phoenix rising from its birth – they live

In books that I occasionally read,

And hope I do not open to a crow.

Crows are real. Probably they live

Like Phoenixes and swans, but they do not

In liquid fly or make a fetching sound.

They beat the air with feathered, broken wings.

Unsteadily and awkwardly they rise.

3-1-14

 

Religion

Children don't survive

With too much Jesus in the house,

Fantasy at odds with nature's

Base reality.

Gullible, they swallow it,

Naively, choke and strangle,

Then live in search of

What they can't define,

But only just remember like a dream.

3-1-14

Counseling

All they did in therapy

Was tell me I was wrong.

Then I fled their therapy.

I wasn't there for long.

Now I'm like the centipede,

Lying in a ditch.

I know I have to move a leg,

But I don't know which.

2-27-14